


that unfulfilled thing

by badteeth



Series: suffer, baby! [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Brief Hippie Nonsense, Colorado Avalache, Drunk Sex, Feelings(?), Frottage, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-04 14:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badteeth/pseuds/badteeth
Summary: The team finds out about Tyson’s nipple piercings immediately, on account of their chosen careers. By that, Colin doesn’t even mean the constant, casual nudity; it’s just the kind of people they are, collectively.





	that unfulfilled thing

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [dalmatienne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dalmatienne/pseuds/dalmatienne) in the [wesmashing](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesmashing) collection. 



> Hi, thank you dalmatienne for the beautiful prompt, srry for soiling it

The team finds out about Tyson’s nipple piercings immediately, on account of their chosen careers. By that, Colin doesn’t even mean the constant, casual nudity; it’s just the kind of people they are, collectively. Summer is ending, which means people are drifting back in from their various nooks across mostly North America and Europe, which means there are many, many rounds of golf to join in on to facilitate final rounds of shameless day drinking and gossip. Colin isn’t massive on golf, but he enjoys the last two and fresh air and sunlight plenty, and, again, it’s what they _do._

So, of course Tyson comes too, and he’s dressed casually but like he’s anticipating the rise in Instagram posts, shorts and a nice, thin polo that both seem to cling to the muscle he’s put on over the summer. Colin is still appreciating the whole look when Nathan yells, loud enough to alarm some of the other groups that populate whatever course they’re at, “Did you get your _nipples pierced?”_

Now, this should be impossible, because Colin just saw him last night, and no way is there a piercing parlor open already today. _Just last night,_ they got dinner, talked about their summers, music and the new places they went to, went back to Colin’s place, and watched several episodes of _The Great British Baking Show_ on Netflix before Tyson drifted back to his place. At no point through any of that did it occur to Colin that Tyson might have gotten his nipples pierced.

But there Tyson is, frozen on the spot, mouth still open like he was about to making his hellos, eyes blinking rapidly, and, yeah, now that Colin’s looking, really looking—

His ears are ringing, and he doesn’t think it’s just because Nathan has fallen onto Tyson, both of them screaming about _how could not tell me_ or _I don’t see how it was any of your business!_

Nathan fails to get Tyson’s shirt much higher than his belly button, and Colin forces himself to look away. Take deep breaths. Appreciate the blue of the sky.

“This really isn’t appropriate for a work outing,” Colin says, and Calvy just laughs at him, but, honestly.

 

• — •                        • — •

 

Colin’s numbers aren’t great, but he avoids being the chirping target for lunch, which is about as high as his goals go for golf. Tyson sits next to him, because he’s avoiding Nate, which is less great for Colin because he doesn’t need Nate angry at him and also he still has a lot to process.

Tyson radiates heat, chair pulled too close with too many hockey players crammed onto a table. Usually, Colin is better at processing things as they are—feeling the warmth, appreciating it, letting it flow through his own body—but one teeny, tiny change and suddenly Colin’s entire internal ecosystem is thrown off.

Colin waits for an appropriate time, which is to say, when their teammates get distracted arguing about their comparative BDE, to ask, “So, when did you get them done?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Tyson says, staring straight ahead, and Colin laughs and says yeah, but apparently it’s not convincing enough, because Tyson doesn’t give him any leeway either. A surge of something tangles up at the base of his skull, and he’s busy enough untangling it all that it takes at least two tries for EJ to get his attention.

“What?”

“Summer. You had one. How was it?”

Tyson interrupts, “Jeez, don’t ask, he went hiking and got super tight with nature—”

“Actually, yeah, that’s true,” Colin says, and, taking in the twitching corner of EJ’s mouth, continues, “I was out in Sedona and it was such a enlightening experience, the energy vortexes out there are incredibly powerful—”

“Oh my _god,”_ Tyson yells. “Did everyone listen to the new Drake album? I thought the new Drake album was lovely.”

Colin laughs as the volume crests again around him. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve listened to it past the singles,” Colin says, and he watches as Tyson drops his head back, groaning with his eyes closed and neck wide, as someone literally screams in outrage from further down the table.

 

• — •                        • — •

 

It’s not like Colin completely fixates on it. He hangs out with other teammates and their kids. Steals one of Landy’s electric scooters. Tries a new pressed juice place that’d opened up. Camp starts soon enough, and it takes a deep, fulfilling energy to fit the mental and physical strength you build up over the offseason into the real thing. But Colin feels good.

The whole Tyson situation just keeps knocking him off-center, though. Every day. It’s not just him, but—

Some part of him had hoped that it was just the secrecy of the whole thing, which seems to have gotten under everyone’s skin, so it’s not just Colin. He watches, discreetly, out of the corner of his eye the first time Tyson comes into the locker room, and he isn’t the loudest to voice his disappointment when he already has his usual gear on under his street clothes.

“I don’t get why you’d do it, and now you’re shy?” Mikko is saying.

It’s hard to keep track of the whole argument from across the room, especially when he can see Matt watching him. He untwists his necklace thoroughly as Tyson announces, “I’m a blushing fucking virgin for all it’s your business.”

There’s some more squawking, so presumably it isn’t the end of the conversation, but it’s all Colin can take.

His dedication to Tyson’s privacy shrivels up once they’re on the ice. Bednar isn’t the type to make the first practice that punishing but he makes them feel it, and Colin shouldn’t have the time to keep an eye on Tyson, how he’s moving, the way he responds to guys bumping into him, if he’s wincing.

Tyson looks _really_ good. Besides everything else, he just looks—great. It makes Colin excited for the season, just looking at him.

And then practice ends.

There’s enough of a ruckus in the showers that Gabe actually kinda, sorta yells at them. It’s mostly about not taking stupid risks and not breaking their heads open on wet tile, but the look on Tyson’s face is enough to make a little part of Colin shrivel.

 

• — •                        • — •

 

The whole thing about the whole not wanting things thing is that, like, it makes a lot of sense to Colin. You think you can make your mom happy and get your degree, and then going to school on top of hockey on top of everything your team and your coach and your friends want from takes on the distinct feeling of drowning. You jump ship, promising _later,_ and the NHL is so, so, so hard, you knew it was going to be hard, but the possibility of you ever being the best in a league again, even top-tier, are falling off in chunks. You get used to that and settle into your role and start thinking about _settling,_ and then you’re traded.

There are blocks of time when Colin thinks he’s doing really good at it, dialed into doing now the best he can and letting things come and go without reaching too hard. It can be its own kind of fatiguing, but it feels _good,_ too, to let himself be disconnected. It’s easier this way. He knows this.

 

• — •                        • — •

 

The season starts, and it’s more good than bad, or at least they’re winning more than they’re losing. There’s good momentum.

Colin starts hot, then nothing. It’s frustrating. There’s no way for it not to be frustrating. He tries to focus on the twelve minutes he’s on the ice for, his responsibilities outside of getting the puck to net, trusting his body to know how to perform and his trainers to know how to take care of his body.

Eight games without a point, and he gets a little antsy.

They lose a road game that they probably could have won, and then they’re back in Denver but only for about four days, which is just long enough for your own bed to still feel like a hotel bed. Some of the guys get it together enough to rally for a night out, some local band at a bar they like, and that, somehow, feels more familiar.

Colin isn’t drinking a lot, but there’s a good enough vibe going that they stick around past the band packing up, a DJ setting up, the bar staff turning down the lights. So Colin’s drinking at a reasonable pace, for long enough that it’s starting to build up in a way that feels like weightlessness in his arms and his chest and his head. So he finds himself next to Tyson. Which isn’t weird, they’re good buddies, they hang out all the time. In fact, Colin had wanted to touch back on—something, that they were talking about before, but when Colin pushes himself onto the booth, Tyson’s already in a heated debate with Nate about rising tensions in a post Grande/Davidson world, his face and the tips of his crinkly ears red even as he’s laughing, loudly, through whatever Nate’s saying, so, whatever it was can wait. It can wait with Colin’s arm over Tyson’s shoulders.

Being drunk really does free up the mind. There’s an easiness in the way thoughts flow to the forefront of Colin’s mind, and it takes no processing power at all to just let them flow through him. For instance, when it occurs to Colin how soft Tyson’s shirt is, he doesn’t hesitate to slide his fingers against the material. It may not even be dri-fit, which can be something of a novelty even in their not-technically-for-work casual clothes, but Colin doesn’t know enough about fabric blends to be sure. Beneath the shirt, Tyson’s bicep also feels very nice, but in a firm way. Very firm.

Tyson has a nice body, whatever his nicknames may be. Nicely formed. His arms are nice. His shoulders, his chest, and from there it’s barely even a curve to _remember how he got his nipples pierced?_

And, yeah, of course Colin remembers, he can’t forget. He’s a visual enough guy that his mind can cobble together an image but it’s not the same as actually seeing—and, seriously, how has Tyson hidden so long, at this point it has to be a game, some cruel game—let alone actually…

Colin doesn’t think about it. It’s not an excuse, and even if he had he probably would have decided it’s within reasonable bounds of teammate proximity, but Colin doesn’t let the idea settle on the back burner for a moment before his fingers are letting go of the shirt and drifting over, just barely grazing the front of Tyson’s arm, the curve of his pec—

He gets elbowed, hard enough to make him stumble as he finds himself standing back on the floor. A bubble of guilt rising through the alcohol, and he doesn’t know what to make of the face Tyson has directed at him, flat compared his laughter from a minute ago but wide-eyed, assessing.

“Go get me a drink,” Tyson says, before the moment can drag.

And Colin, still knocked off balance somewhere, just responds, “What do you want?”

Tyson waves off the question, which feels dangerous to Colin given Tyson’s various particularities when it comes to food and drink, but Colin turns and wedges himself through the crowd. He spies a couple of the kids making absolute fools of themselves on the dance floor, but by the time he actually reaches the bar, none of his teammates are in sight. There are too many people around for him to be alone by any real definition, but it still feels like too much space for his mind to start unfurling and doubling back on itself. He debates cutting himself off, then orders a shot of vodka along with Tyson’s drink.

The shot’s gone by the time someone presses hard against his back, pushing past him to slide into the unoccupied seat to his left. He glances mostly out of reflex, then again when he realizes it’s Tyson. The stool lifts him enough that he’s got an inch or two on Colin. It’s an interesting angle.

“I got you that gin and honey thing,” Colin says, to fill the sudden bubble of silence.

“That’s—okay, I want that,” Tyson says. “But what the fuck, Willy?”

And Colin flounders, because I really, really wanted to usually isn’t the right answer for this type of thing. Tyson doesn’t wait for him to come up with something before continuing, “The other guys, I get it, it’s whatever. Giving up personal space and bodily, like, freedom is something you get used to in juniors.”

“What?” The bartender drops the martini glass off in front of Colin, and Tyson doesn’t hesitate to pick it up and take a large swallow. Colin fails not to watch.

“The second anyone does anything new, even like a hair cut, is, like, a big deal for us as a group, I _get it,”_ Tyson says, waving his empty hand dismissively. “But you—you don’t really fuck with me.”

“I fuck with you plenty,” Colin says, trying not to get caught with all the things that can mean, _I fuck with you._

“Not like this. Not with the whole, ‘I’m trying to fuck the whole team’ thing.”

And Colin just blinks, because he’s been with the team for long enough to feel more or less comfortable, but he still only has half an idea where ninety percent of the in-jokes come from, and that particular thread is something Colin cannot quite puzzle out, despite his best attempts.

“Well,” Colin responds. “You know.”

“Drink this,” Tyson says, thrusting the glass back at Colin. He takes it, brings it to his mouth, and lets the sweet burn cover his tongue before swallowing. Mostly sweet. He hands the glass back, and Tyson knocks back the last of it. “So? Are you?”

“Fucking with you?” Colin asks, and Tyson just _looks_ at him, intense like he gets when there’s just one person’s attention to draw in. “I mean, I guess by some definitions, you could say I’m trying.”

“Jesus, Colin. Call an Uber,” Tyson says, and he’s squeezing Colin’s forearm, not hard but enough to feel it, and, yeah, he’s definitely calling an Uber. He’s calls an Uber Black, because it’ll get there six minutes quicker, and maybe it’s not the most environmentally conscious thing he’s done all year, but he’ll just sit in darkness for a couple of hours later in the week and it’ll even out, more or less.

He helps Tyson off the stool, even though he doesn’t need it, and then it’s just. Hard to stop touching, now he’s got permission, he thinks. Tyson’s leading the way out even though Colin’s got the information, and it’s hard not to let his hand drift from Tyson’s back to Tyson’s hip, then underneath his shirt to feel where skin meets denim.

The downside of the Black is that the backseat is very spacious, meaning Colin has no way of discreetly keeping his hands on Tyson, and that kills him a little. They haven’t even—Colin _gets_ why nothing really happened at the bar, but he’s more than half-paranoid that they’ll get back to Colin’s place and not making it past his couch, where they gain a new appreciation for ma’amoul and boundaries between coworkers.

He really doesn’t want that. He _really_ doesn’t want Tyson knowing he watched any GBBS episodes without him.

Colin glances at Tyson, who’s typing furiously on his phone. Surely, there are other shows on Netflix. _Nailed it._ There’s nothing to be disappointed about.

They make it through the lobby of Colin’s apartment building and up the elevator with little event. Maybe Tyson follows a little close behind on the short walk to his front door, but maybe Colin is forcing himself to see things. His hands are mostly steady as he unlocks the door.

He’s barely closed the door behind them before Tyson is pressing Colin up against it, body pressing firm and hot against him. Tyson’s hands are on his jaw, at the back of his head, bringing him down far enough that their mouths meet forcefully, easily, like locks clicking place, turned over and over again by an anxious thumb just prove how good it feels.

“Touch me,” Tyson gasps, “come on, you wanted to, touch me, touch me, touch me—”

It’s hard to think with his tongue in Tyson’s mouth—does he taste honey, or does he just want to?— but it’s harder to ignore a demand like that, and, fuck, Tyson feels _so nice,_ the way his body holds its strength. He gets distracted trying and largely failing to shove his hand down the back of Tyson’s pants—fuck waistbands, honestly—with his teeth on Tyson’s ear, pressed close, but then he remembers, and, oh, god.

“Oh, god,” he says out loud. “Can I— Tys, please.”

“Nah,” Tyson responds, breathless, and Colin’s heart just about breaks before he continues, “Yeah, Colin, come on, I didn’t come here for nothing.”

Some part of him wants to cherish this moment, like he’s finally unwrapping a gift after months—weeks—of anticipation, but a much larger part, the part that’s in charge, screams ahead. The metal isn’t cool to the touch but still so hard, so utterly smooth that it’s still a shock to feel against the organic heat of Tyson’s nipple, the muscle around it. Even more than that is the way even the first touch makes Tyson shiver; Colin barely has to press in his thumb for Tyson to groan, loud, head rolling back just a little.

Colin takes the moment to shove Tyson’s nice, soft shirt up around his arm pits, and, god, they just look _so_ good on Tyson; silver barbells fit just right, snug but so undeniably there, Tyson’s nipples peaked around them. Colin wants to find his light switch and take a million photos. He wants to get his mouth on them. One is much more practical than the other.

Tyson’s hands fist in Colin’s hair as he twists away and then presses into Colin’s tongue as he presses it against the tip, sucking lightly. The metal feels even more pronounced like this, and it’s fun trying to maneuver around it, to hear the noises Tyson’s making above him. Colin’s teeth practically make him cry, even as his hands pull Colin closer.

He switches sides once Tyson starts getting twitchy, and it goes on like that, back and forth, until Tyson pulls him back with a shuddering breath.

“I’m not coming in your doorway,” he says.

“You can, though,” Colin says. His mouth is tingling a little, and even in the dark he can see the flush surrounding Tyson’s nipples. That he put there. Around the _metal_ that someone else put there.

Tyson has to keep him from leaning back in.

“I _won’t.”_

They make it back to Colin’s room, mostly because of Tyson, but it still takes awhile because neither of them can stop touching each other. It’s bizarre, how you can know someone and be close to them, then you can break a seal on a whim and suddenly the planes of his back feel different, his hair softer, his thighs more than just a byproduct of their job.

Tyson seems to be going through the same revelation. Colin knows this because Tyson says so; it’s a kind of thrill, that the I-want-it babble doesn’t stop here or, like, at Landy.

“I want to suck your dick so bad,” Tyson is saying, Colin’s pants pulled down just enough to not get in the way. He’s not sure how long he’s been hard, had practically forgotten about that part of the deal altogether, like Tyson is an out of body experience. But now—

“You’re, uh, very much welcome to,” Colin says. His mouth feels like an awkward and insufficient tool to convey everything he’d let Tyson do to him right now.

“Can’t,” Tyson says darkly, even as he leans down and licks a fat, wet stripe up the underside of Colin’s cock. His toes feel numb. Are his socks still on? “Why’d you have to buy me that last drink?”

“You _told_ me to.”

“You gonna do everything I say?” It seems like a cruel question to ask as Tyson starts jerking him off, his hand more firm that what Colin usually uses on himself but still, like, _good._ Really good. He knows Tyson has a lot of fun pushing and getting pushed back, usually harder, but isn’t that he said, anyway, that this thing with Colin was different—Colin doesn’t feel like pushing right now.

Alright, he pushes a little bit, but mostly ineffectively with his feet, trying to get the damn waist of Tyson’s jeans down over his ass again, and then Tyson gets his hands in the mess, and then the pants are _gone,_ and, wow, Tyson has a nice dick. A little short but thick, which, like, fitting. Uncut. It feels _really_ nice against Colin’s, with Tyson’s free hand holding them both close.

Colin finally gets his own hands working again, throwing out an arm until it comes in contact with his end table, and one of the vials he keeps there. It’s glass and fancy enough to be discrete, which is maybe why Tyson looks at him and it and him again before taking it and reading the label. Then he snorts.

“I’m surprised it’s not organic.”

“Oh,” Colin says, “isn’t it?”

“It’s _organic?”_ Tyson repeats. “Colin! You can’t just try to hoist any bottle of hippie nonsense onto a guy’s dick! Do you know what’s in this?”

“Tyson,” Colin laughs. “I don’t know. Mostly aloe.”

 _“Mostly,”_ and then, in a different, yet equally incredulous tone, “Aloe!” Then he makes a big show of smelling it and rubbing it between his fingers and doing a spot test, before knocking Colin’s hands back out of the way and dumping, like, way more than is really necessary onto Colin. It feels good, though, the slick mess between them, especially when Tyson just down and presses them front-to-front, his—only mostly non-lubed—fingers in Colin’s chest hair and his teeth, briefly, on Colin’s lip and, god, his piercings still a cool point between them.

“How are you supposed to fuck me with _aloe,”_ Tyson mumbles into Colin’s mouth, not letting him laugh for long before demanding the attention back with his tongue thoroughly enough that Colin forgets the question for a minute, his mind gone dark and hazy and warm.

“We can use whatever you like. Stuff’s good, though.” And, no longer hindered by Tyson’s pants, he lets his hands wander down enough to grip Tyson’s ass, maybe a little harder than he meant to but Tyson just moans, and from there it’s hard not to explore, just a little.

“You’re a real classic man, huh,” Tyson gasps out, grinding forward even as he pushes back, his head falling to the side, his breath hot against Colin’s neck. “All about tits and ass.”

“Uh,” Colin grunts, because Colin is into plenty of things, in general and on Tyson, but it doesn’t feel like quite the right time to make the argument.

“Bet under all that outside freak is some secret normie who’s into, like, missionary and face touching and, and—”

Tyson keeps talking right through Colin coming, and it’s not really a surprise when him following shortly after doesn’t quite stop him, either. He does get quiet for a moment in the aftermath, but then he gets worked up again about the lube, and using Colin’s shower, and also his toothbrush, and then flinching first when Colin offers it to him before breaking out his spare collection, largely stolen from the hotels they’ve stayed it.

They don’t talk about Tyson staying the night, but he does anyway.

Sometimes, when Colin hits the right level of buzzed, it doesn’t quite knock him out. He knows better than to say anything about, like, a higher connection, or to trust alcohol to get him there, but it still feels like a sort of presentness he has to fight for, usually. The room is cool. His duvet is warm and heavy. Tyson sleeps on his stomach, and his breathing rocks him. Sometimes, Colin really, really wants.

**Author's Note:**

> mostly on [tumblr](http://mogilny.tumblr.com) | sometimes on [twitter](https://twitter.com/post_madonna)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] that unfulfilled thing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599866) by [growlery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/growlery/pseuds/growlery)




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